Posts categorized "Architecture"

If there exists a finer, more compelling argument for the need, necessity, and value of dedicated (i.e., professional), serious, deeply informed and literate critics and criticism in the arts and literature than the one written for The New Yorker titled "A Critic’s Manifesto" by Daniel Mendelsohn we've never encountered it.

An excerpt:

By dramatizing their own thinking on the page, by revealing the basis of their judgments and letting you glimpse the mechanisms by which they exercised their (individual, personal, quirky) taste, all these [professional] critics were, necessarily, implying that you could arrive at your own, quite different judgments—that a given work could operate on your own sensibility in a different way. What I was really learning from those critics each week was how to think. How to think (we use the term so often that we barely realize what we’re saying) critically — which is to say, how to think like a critic, how to judge things for myself. To think is to make judgments based on knowledge: period.

[...]

And so the fact is that (to invoke the popular saying) everyone is not a critic. This, in the end, may be the crux of the problem, and may help explain the unusual degree of violence in the reaction to the stridently negative reviews that appeared in the Times Book Review earlier this summer, triggering the heated debate about critics. In an essay about phony memoirs that I wrote a few years ago, I argued that great anger expressed against authors and publishers when traditionally published memoirs turn out to be phony was a kind of cultural displacement: what has made us all anxious about truth and accuracy in personal narrative is not so much the published memoirs that turn out to be false or exaggerated, which has often been the case, historically, but rather the unprecedented explosion of personal writing (and inaccuracy and falsehood) online, in Web sites and blogs and anonymous commentary—forums where there are no editors and fact-checkers and publishers to point an accusing finger at.

Similarly, I wonder whether the recent storm of discussion about criticism, the flurry of anxiety and debate about the proper place of positive and negative reviewing in the literary world, isn’t a by-product of the fact that criticism, in a way unimaginable even twenty years ago, has been taken out of the hands of the people who should be practicing it: true critics, people who, on the whole, know precisely how to wield a deadly zinger, and to what uses it is properly put. When, after hearing about them, I first read the reviews of Peck’s and Ohlin’s works, I had to laugh. Even the worst of the disparagements wielded by the reviewers in question paled in comparison to the groundless vituperation and ad hominem abuse you regularly encounter in Amazon.com reviews or the “comments” sections of literary publications. Yes, we’re all a bit sensitive to negative reviewing these days; but if you’re going to sit in judgment on anyone, it shouldn’t be the critics.

That Richard Wagner as a composer of opera was a consummate genius is something that for over a century is beyond all dispute and debate except by those of the lunatic fringe who have perpetual and ignorant objection to Wagner on other grounds. Not so well known is that by all the best firsthand accounts, Wagner was a consummate genius as an actor and stage director as well. And I think we have to add yet another consummate genius award to Wagner: as a designer of opera houses the Bayreuther Festspielhaus being eloquent testimony to that genius as the governing design concept of the building was Wagner's own. Here's Wagner himself on the Festspielhaus as it began to be built:

To explain the plan of the festival theatre now being built in Bayreuth, I believe that I cannot do better than begin with the need I felt first, namely, that of rendering invisible the technical hearth of the music: the orchestra. For this one constraint led step by step to the total redesigning of the auditorium of our neo-European theatre. Those of my readers who are familiar with some of my earlier writings will already know my thoughts on the concealment of the orchestra, and I hope that even if they had not already felt this for themselves, a subsequent visit to the opera will have convinced them of the rightness of my feeling that the constant and, indeed, insistent sight of the technical apparatus needed to produce the sound constitutes a most tiresome distraction. In my essay on Beethoven [Beethoven, 1870] I was able to explain how at thrilling performances of ideal works of music we may ultimately cease to notice this reprehensible evil as a result of the force with which all our senses are retuned, resulting, as it were, in a kind of neutralization of our sense of sight. With a stage performance, by contrast, it is a question of attuning our sense of sight to precisely apprehending an image, which can be done only by distracting it completely and by preventing it from noticing any reality than lies in between, such reality including the technical apparatus needed to produce the image in the first place.

Internationally famous architect (and well she should be) Zaha Hadid seems to have done it yet again. Designed and saw built a fabulously spectacular building, that is. Not in her adopted home country, England (she a native Iraqi), and not even in Europe, but in Guangzhou, China(!). And our calling the just opened Guangzhou Opera House fabulously spectacular is no gratuitous hyperbole. Judge for yourselves:

It's something of a marvel to us that no one (or, rather, no one to our knowledge) has made note of the uncanny similarity — a similarity approaching an almost virtual identity — between composer Richard Wagner and the great American architect Frank Lloyd Wright in both their personal and professional lives, and, mutatis mutandis, in their respective artistic domains. A proper examination of this uncanny similarity would require a full-scale dissertation replete with detailed examples to do justice to; a project we might at some later time actually undertake should the opportunity to get paid for it ever present itself. For the nonce, however, we'll rest content merely to note the uncanny similarity and bullet-point a few of its features that don't require a detailed exegesis.

⚫ Born some 54 years apart, the later having no special interest in or special knowledge of the earlier, both men, from childhood on, were (in)famous for their unfettered arrogance and monstrous ego, for their sense of their own glorious destiny not only in their respective artistic domains but as saviors of an entire culture, and for their perfect awareness of and absolute belief in the supremacy of their own respective stellar genius. In all these respects, both men would have made even Napoleon blush.
⚫ Both men were, by nature, tyrannical sorts incapable of understanding or seeing things in any way but their own, both insisting that others see things their way as well or risk public censure for their impertinence and stupidity. Yet both men were utterly charming when it suited them to be so, and attracted the devotion of men and the attentions of women throughout their lives despite their less than imposing physical stature (they were both only about 5 1/2 feet tall) and less than movie-star good looks.
⚫ Both men were extravagant and eccentric in their needs and desires, incapable of living within their means, and expert in manipulating others to supply their wants without any realistic regard to ever repaying the debt.
⚫ In the glare of vicious widespread public censure, both men escaped bourgeois marriages to acquire a wife who was at the time of wooing married to another; a wife devoted totally to the serving of each man's needs and the nurturing of his special genius, and who devoted herself to carrying on her husband's work and preserving and enlarging his legacy after his death.
⚫ Both men wrote autobiographies that were largely commercials for the self, replete with the half-truths and falsehoods, large and small, such an enterprise requires.
⚫ Both men founded institutions as monuments to themselves and their art: Wagner, the Bayreuther Festspiele, and Wright, the Taliesin Fellowship, both of which are today still in existence.
⚫ Both men had little love or reverence for the status quo in their respective artistic domains, and struck out on their own creatively as their respective genius dictated without regard to the practical consequences of their actions, and in the process created revolutionary and enduring masterpieces which won the accolades of their fellows, the informed critical press, and the educated public alike, and reserved for both artists an exalted place in their respective artistic domains and in the domain of Art that remains unchallenged to this day.
⚫ Both men were intransigent anti-Semites.

[B]eneath Kings Place, 150 strides from Eurostar St Pancras, rumbles a cultural revolution. Peter Millican, the out-of-town developer who bought the land in 1999, has created an office block that will also present classical music concerts and art exhibitions, completely free of public subsidy.

[...]

This is the plan. Half of Kings Place is let to the Guardian newspaper, the rest to Network Rail and other tenants who pay a commercial rent. Restaurants, bars and other amenities will be open to the public from breakfast to midnight, just like any other gherkin on the map.

The difference, however, hits the eye as you enter the lobby. On the right of security is an open sculpture gallery with a fully-curated programme and a working artist, Abigail Fallis, in residence. Down one escalator flight is a visual art gallery.

Another flight down are the concert halls, one space with 420 seats, the other 220.

[...]

Along with the art galleries, the music programme is filling up with famous acts. The opening in October will present 100 concerts in five days featuring Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, Master of the Queen’s Musick; the Brodsky, Duke and Chilingarian quartets; the Classical Opera Company and the pianist Jean-Bernard Pommier.

Two groups, the London Sinfonietta and the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment, are moving onto the site. Both are officially resident at the subsidised South Bank but it’s the private developer of Kings Place who is giving them waterside offices at peppercorn rent, as well as a free hand with programming content.

Sad news, and a loss of a meaningful critical voice. Architecture critic Herbert Muschamp is dead of lung cancer at age 59.

As the architecture critic for The [New York] Times from 1992 to 2004, Mr. Muschamp seized on a moment when the repetitive battles between Modernists and Post-Modernists had given way to a surge of exuberance that put architecture back in the public spotlight. His openness to new talent was reflected in the architects he championed, from Frank Gehry, Rem Koolhaas, Zaha Hadid and Jean Nouvel, now major figures on the world stage, to younger architects like Greg Lynn, Lindy Roy and Jesse Reiser and Nanako Umemoto.

He also paid close attention to architects who were recognized for their theoretical writings. Mr. Muschamp seemed as interested in the ideas that pushed architecture forward as he was in the successes and failures of buildings themselves.

His criticism stood out for the way he wove together seemingly unrelated themes in an arch, self-deprecating tone, a signature style that helped break down the image of the critic as an all-knowing figure who wrote from atop a pedestal.

Regular readers of this blog over the years are more than passingly aware of our numerous, um, criticisms of the quality of the arts coverage of the mainstream media, particularly the daily mainstream media, in terms of its content, its writers, and the makeup of its pages, our most frequent target being the arts pages of The New York Times. We most frequently target The Times because it's our "native" newspaper, so to speak (although not a native New Yorker, we've been reading the arts pages of The Times since our junior high school days); a newspaper that's often, and for good reason, referred to as America's "National Newspaper of Record"; and because of the precipitous descent in the quality and content of those pages over the past couple years or so in particular.

Well, the man most responsible for that descent — New York Times culture editor, Sam Sifton, who was appointed culture editor of The Times in 2005 — is holding court and fielding reader questions this week in The Times's Talk to the Newsroom section of the newspaper, and so we thought we might ask a question or ten of Mr. Sifton. But all we could think of to ask was the simple question:

What specially qualifies you to "overse[e] the daily Arts pages ... and [the] Arts & Leisure [section]" of any major broadsheet, much less The New York Times, our "National Newspaper of Record"?

Needless to say, and as expected, our question wasn't published, and no answer was otherwise forthcoming.

We don't blame Mr. Sifton for that, actually, as the question was both unseemly and exceedingly rudely put, and aggressive in the extreme into the bargain. And so we went a-Googling for an answer. And what did we find? This, from the 2005 Times press release announcing Mr. Sifton's appointment as the culture editor of The Times:

Mr. Sifton, 38, has been deputy culture editor at The Times since 2004. He joined The Times in 2001 as deputy Dining editor, and became Dining editor later that year. Previously he was a founding editor of Talk magazine where he worked until 1998. Before joining Talk he held a number of positions at the New York Press from 1990 to 1998, including managing editor, media critic, senior editor, contributing editor and restaurant critic. Before joining the New York Press he taught social studies in New York City public schools from 1990 to 1994. Before that, he was an assistant editor at American Heritage from 1988 to 1990.

Mr. Sifton graduated magna cum laude from Harvard College with a B.A. degree in history and literature in 1988. He is author of A Field Guide to the Yettie (Talk Miramax Books, 2000).

An intellectual blogger with a perverse taste and seemingly insatiable appetite for the low in culture whom I refuse to name and whose blog I've just removed from our Culture Blogs listing and refuse to here link, yesterday posted the following:

I just wrote a note to the National Trust for Historical Preservation. Somebody's gotta take the hard-reactionary stance, darn it.

Dear All --

I'd been under the impression that the preservation movement came about in large part as a protest against what modernism has done to our environment. An anti-modernist stance is certainly why I at least am interested in supporting the preservation movement.

So imagine my dismay in recent years as the National Trust has taken it more and more on themselves to speak up for and agitate for preservation of modernist buildings. I notice in your Jan/Feb issue two major articles cryin' the blues about supposed modernist masterpieces, for example. (One of them is here.)

I'm very sorry to see that you've fallen for the architecture world's argument that modernism now deserves to be seen not as a disastrous episode in architecture history, but as a worthy-of-preservation moment.

The argument the architecture establishment is making is yet another in a series of their endless attempts to legitimize and perpetuate modernism. "It wasn't so bad ... It was well-intended ... After all, some of the buildings were great ... It deserves love and care too ... Why not embrace it?"

No no no. The current architecture establishment is the direct descendant of the original modernists, and they're doing what they can to entice preservationists into supporting their awful line of descent. They're doing what they can to co-opt their enemies.

Don't fall for it. Insist on the facts: Modernism stank, and was a destructive and totalitarian disaster.

We should be fighting these attempts to redeem modernism, not falling for them. Let's be clear: Modernism was a terrible disaster, the worst thing to happen in all of architectural history. The scale of its damage to our shared environment is on a par with what happens when wars devastate cities and countrysides.

Well, I guess you already have fallen for the let's-preserve-modernism line, darn it.

Would you mind directing me to a truly anti-modernist, pro-preservation-of-traditional-architecture organization?

Best,

[name withheld]

I wonder if they'll print it. Any bets?

I replied thusly to the above in the comments section of the post in question:

If you can find anyone to take the "Will" side, I'll take the other side, and give 1000-1 odds into the bargain.

Why should they print your letter? It's thoroughly uninformed, and reads like something written by a zealot from the lunatic fringe with an ax to grind. It's one thing to skewer Modernist architecture for its real failures and absurd moral cast. It's quite another to blanket-condemn the architecture of an entire architectural movement that was one of the most inventive and, at its best, one of the most aesthetically satisfying in all architectural history.

ACD

My above comment was summarily deleted by the post's author almost as soon as it was posted, and I reprint it here just for the record.

I've adduced on this blog more times than I care to count, and in the strongest possible terms, the ought-to-be-self-evident-but-strangely-isn't keystone idea that,

...genuine architecture is art first, and building second. No art, no architecture, which is to say that any building in whose design aesthetic considerations were not treated as primary is an example of mere building, and not architecture. And so for critical purposes a distinction must be made between mere building and architecture. "Bumping your head...the rising damp...whether you're going to have to put out buckets in the middle of the living room to catch the leaking rainwater" are all valid primary critical criteria in judging the worth of a mere building. They are in no way valid primary critical criteria in judging the worth of a work of architecture. As I've hammered home ad nauseam here and elsewhere, concern with aesthetics  art  is always and forever architecture's primary defining characteristic. It's that alone which separates architecture from mere building, and is alone architecture's  and the architect's  sine qua non, and very raison d'être..

In a marvelous interview with the great architect Frank Gehry for The Wall Street Journal by novelist Akhil Sharma, there's this:

"I don't know why people hire architects and then tell them what to do," Mr. Gehry says. "Architects have to become parental. They have to learn to be parental." By this he means that an architect has to listen to his client but also remain firm about what the architect knows best, the aesthetics of a building. This, Mr. Gehry says, is what makes an architect relevant in the process that leads to a completed building. "I think a lot of my colleagues lose it, lose that relevance in the spirit of serving their client, so that no matter what, they are serving the client. Even if the building they produce, that they think serves the client, doesn't really serve the client because it's not very good."

Somehow the argument becomes infinitely more persuasive when adduced by Mr. Gehry no matter how elliptically stated.

We call them shells because that's how they look. Properly speaking, though, the [Sydney] Opera House is not a shell structure at all.

The shell idea thrilled architects of the mid-20th century because it looked effortless and was immensely difficult to achieve. The idea, though, is simple: in a structure shaped around natural stress patterns, the forces generated by self-weight will remain within the material, removing any need for external ribs, beams or buttresses.

Utzon's shells were never actually shells, even before they were re-formed into spherical sections to make the maths do-able. And, either way, the same fundamental problem would have arisen.

The problem is that they are three-dimensional gothic arches which generate huge outward thrust. The Opera House is really a gothic cathedral, sans buttresses. This necessitates the enormous tie-beam that holds the "shells" together underground and, in so doing, makes a proper orchestra pit impossible. Along with the narrow peninsula site and the sketch-decision to locate the two halls side-by-side, the shell idea meant the opera hall could never have orchestra pit, fly-tower or side-stages.

Which does not mean there is anything wrong with the building, just that we misnamed it. We could fix its faults by admitting it is not an opera house at all, never will be. It is not, really, architecture. It is a fabulous, transcendent piece of sculpture.

In the second act of Swan Lake, elegant ballerinas, with white tutus fluttering, toes pointed, leap across the Sydney Opera House stage at speed and out of sight into the wings. What waits for them there must rank among the least graceful moves in all the world.

But it is one that has saved them from disaster, according to the ballet's artistic director and a former dancer, David McAllister.

"The girls would race off the ramp in the second act and we'd have someone there to catch them and push them off to the side, a bit like a football or handball, so the girls didn't go smashing into the wings," he says.

Their leap into the arms of a catcher, often a sturdy mechanist, has been necessitated in Swan Lake and other ballets over the years because the Opera Theatre has so little wing space. It is about two metres wide, a quarter of what the ballet has at its Melbourne venue. This makes exits at speed in the Opera Theatre risky: accidents must be avoided, but illusion - essential to the magic of theatre - must be maintained.

Of all the habits shared by ancient and modern people, stargazing may be the most serene. When we look up at a clear night sky, or view the fabulously beautiful pictures of stars and galaxies coming from the Hubble Space Telescope, we enter awestruck and humble into a magical realm that has the sacred hush of an ancient cathedral or a great art museum. We almost feel we should keep our voices down and turn off our cell phones out of respect.

So how would you feel if suddenly, as you quietly admired a dark and starry sky, you heard the stars making all kinds of crazy noises?

[...]

Einstein's theory of spacetime tells us that the real universe is not silent, but is actually alive with vibrating energy. Space and time carry a cacophony of vibrations with textures and timbres as rich and varied as the din of sounds in a tropical rain forest or the finale of a Wagner opera. It's just that we haven't heard those sounds yet. The universe is a musical that we've been watching all this time as a silent movie.

The Brit Guardian Unlimited has completed a major restructuring of its comprehensive coverage of the arts, and it’s a thing of beauty and marvelous to behold. Of particular interest is the reordering of its music coverage that now has separate sections for each music genre which automatically segregates coverage of classical music and opera and of jazz and blues from coverage of pop, rock, C&W, and other crap. It's the way to do it, and the way it should be done by every mainstream publication that pretends to authority in the music universe.

The Guardian may be unregenerately left-leaning politically, which is too bad, but in its arts coverage it's spot-on right (as in correct), and makes the arts coverage of mainstream dailies such as The New York Times look like it was put together by pretentious but purblind yokels.

(Note: This post has been updated (1) as of 12:24 AM Eastern on 12 May. See below.)

In the event you weren't already aware of the fact, composer, blogger, and all-around wit Fred Himebaugh of the Fredösphere is a rather, um, eccentric fellow. Witnesseth this little item. Oh, and Fred thinks Mozart an overrated composer as well.

Did I say eccentric?

Well, best to leave it at that, I suppose.

Update (12:24 AM Eastern on 12 May): Blogger David Sucher of City Comforts, in an update to this post of his, thinks my implied stance above vis-à-vis the architecturally brilliant Pilgrimage Chapel at Ronchamps reflects that of "the man in the street wearing a baseball cap." My withering response to that outrageous remark may be read in the comments section of his post.

In a recent cyber-browse through the online literature, I noticed that my last post, on "neotraditional travel," was mentioned in the American Society of Landscape Architecture's Land Online and in David Sucher's City Comforts, and that in both cases my comments were read as a defense of New Urbanism. This isn't exactly what I'd intended, and so I'd like now to add some postscriptive thoughts — partly to clarify what I might have left vague in remarks that ranged (rather loosely) over a lot of ground, and partly to give some sense of my critical leanings.

[...]

Living in what you might call the Old Urbanist town of Cambridge, Mass., I am grateful for the convenience, the everyday ease, that comes with good public transit and dense walkable neighborhoods clustered around corner stores and small-scale retail strips. But New Urbanism hasn't become a phenomenal success because it promotes mixed-use zoning and multi-family housing and metropolitan light rail; it's become a phenomenal success because it is closely linked with a comfortably quaint aesthetic, with what Ada Louise Huxtable, in The Unreal America, has called "the genre of romantic recall." Style isn't the issue, New Urbanists will insist; and in principle it isn't. But in practice it's style that sells; and it's style that has made New Urbanism not just a movement but also a brand. Style is — of course — hard to argue with. Either you like something, or you don't. Either you stroll happily through a tidy New Urbanist town and admire the Italianate clock tower and the shingled cottages with the gabled roofs . . . or you feel (count me in) as if you've wandered into a warmed-over exercise in postmodern parody. That is — maybe — an exaggerated view of the usual range of aesthetic response. But somehow we've got to the point, in mass-market housing design, where architectural invention and exploration are mostly unsought, if not downright unwelcome.

Couldn't have said it as well myself although I tried in a post of 11 January 2003 on a previous weblog wherein I wrote, in part (names and no-longer-working links omitted):

M_____ has posted an impassioned, epic-length screed contra what he calls "modernist" architecture, by which he means all forms and styles of architecture practiced today by the elite of the architecture establishment (whose work M_____ contemptuously dubs "egotecture"; a neologism that may either be his or borrowed); those who get their work published in architectural journals such as, say, the Architectural Record as opposed to those architects whose work would never see the light of day in such journals but might be published in a consumer periodical such as, say, House and Garden. In other words, M_____ is against, say, a Mies or a Wright, and is all for...whatever mediocrity whose work the latter named periodical might find proper fodder for publication. (I can almost hear M_____'s objection to my saying he's against a Wright, giving me all sorts of reasons, with examples, why Wright would not be on his (s)hit list. But if he's reckless enough to attempt that, he'll find his arguments against elitist architects in shreds by his very own hand, with only the tiniest assist from me.)

M_____ is all for architecture movements with names such as Traditionalist, New-traditionalist, New-Classicism, and New Urbanism. And just what are these movements about? M_____ would say they're about architecture done by those who "...are more interested in user-centric values (comfiness, neighborhoods, context, tradition, craftsmanship) than they are in showing off their design prowess." I would say they're about building being done by those with essentially the same vision as William Levit when he built the first Levittown: offer the Common Man what he wants and feels comfortable with at the right price, and he will come  in droves. Buildings built according to the so-called Traditionalist, New Traditionalist, and New Classicism aesthetic are little more than nostalgic, picture-postcard-pretty confections; and communities designed according to the aesthetic of the New Urbanism, little more than upscale, prettified Levittowns  Levittown with tasteful historical elevations and details. Buildings and communities built according to these aesthetics positively reek of "comfiness"; the comfiness of an old shoe  or an earth-dug grave.

In short, they're all irredeemably dreadful as architecture; in fact do not even deserve to be called by that name. They're merely buildings built by builders, not architects with any aesthetic right to the title.

My views haven't changed one iota since writing that, nor do I expect them to change any time in future.

[Apropos the publication of two new books dealing with the shameful catastrophe that is the rebuilding of the Ground Zero site  New Yorker architecture critic Paul Goldberger's book, Up From Zero, and freelance journalist Philip Nobel's book, Sixteen Acres  and the buzz surrounding both books (here, and here, for two instances), I thought I would reprint an old weblog post of mine from February 2003. It herewith follows without further comment by me.]

It must be admitted that the Studio Daniel Libeskind design  the just announced winner of the LMDC design competition for the reconstruction of Ground Zero  meets to largely satisfying degree the crucial requirement of this site; embodies what the site must ultimately reflect and be. As I wrote previously concerning the then still in-progress design competition:

This occasion, this opportunity, this opportunity of opportunities, is not one for a contemplating of the anti-heroic. Whatever design finally emerges as the winning design for this site must be, at all scales and in every element, a veritable paradigm of the heroic; a paradigm of both monument and symbol  unambiguously monumental, and unambiguously symbolic  so that all who encounter the site from whatever conceivable vantage point can never mistake it for ordinary architectural space; can never be in doubt about precisely what it represents; can never, for even an instant, look on it or experience it as mere commercial or civic enterprise. And that must be true not only for NYC residents and gawking sightseers, but for all the world.

Now that the winner has been chosen, however, the back-and-forth bickering that before rose not much higher than a background murmur will now rise to a barely muted roar, and it will be heard. As things are shaping up even at this very early stage, it's already clear that at the final accounting the pimps and the politicians will ultimately have their way, and whatever disconnected and bastardized fragments of the original design remain will simply not be worth bickering about one way or another.

Whatever the aesthetic faults or merits of the Libeskind design (and there are sufficient of both), if built, it ought to be built in toto in strict accordance with the architect's original vision, typical and expected degrees of post-original-design adjustments of course excepted. That vision, after all, is presumably what won the design the competition  a competition for the most significant architectural project of the last 100 years, and perhaps of the next 100  and therefore that vision ought to prevail. To have it not prevail would, of course, make a joke and charade of the entire design competition process, but much more importantly, would rob the ultimately finished project of any semblance of genuine aesthetic and symbolic integrity, and that simply ought not to be contemplated, much less countenanced.

But unhappily, what ought or ought not to be is pure armchair theorizing in such cases. As always in matters where political power and huge amounts of commercial money are at stake, the gulf between what ought to be and what will be is so vast as to be unbridgeable, and the handwriting is already beginning to show upon the wall.

The new architecture critic of The New York Times, Nicolai Ouroussoff, who replaces the erstwhile and widely reviled (but not by me) Herbert Muschamp, looks to be a real winner. If not quite in the same class as the great Ada Louise Huxtable, he nevertheless is a critic both well-informed and eloquent as his detailed descriptions of architect Yoshio Taniguchi's new design of the MoMA attest. And what overall does Mr. Ouroussoff think of the new building?

[T]he expanded museum is a serene composition that weaves art, architecture and the city into a transcendent aesthetic experience. Its crisp surfaces and well-proportioned forms clean up the mess that the building had become over the course of three expansions.

And what does Mr. Ouroussoff think the new MoMA's display organization has to say for itself?

[T]he layout [of the exhibitions] also suggests how the new Modern hews in many ways to the vision of the old Met. The main painting and sculpture galleries are stacked in reverse chronological order, with the bulk of the contemporary works on the second level; drawings, architecture and design on the third; works from 1945 to 1970 on the fourth; and 1880 to 1945 on the fifth. (Temporary exhibition spaces are at the very top.)

The vertical hierarchy evokes a Darwinian climb toward the canonical works of early Modernism. For an aspiring young artist craving acceptance, it may also bring to mind the rings of Dante's Inferno. It reinforces the notion - in a way not sensed at the Met today - that museums are as much about the stamp of legitimacy as about aesthetic pleasure.

This may irritate people who believe that a 21st-century museum should take a more populist approach. It runs counter to the idea that art, in a democracy, is a messy, open process. And it exposes the design's overwhelming assertion of control, beautiful yet chilling. But that is what powerful art institutions do: they set standards, they make evaluations. You could argue that Mr. Taniguchi is stripping away the egalitarian pose and exposing the museum for what it is.